The Lollipop Shoes Read Free

ever saw one; tired, so tired of having to be good, and perilously close to the age of revolt. Her colours were unusually clear; in them I read some wilfulness, some sadness, a touch of anger and a bright thread of something that I could not quite identify.
    ‘Come on, Annie. Tell me. Who died?’
    ‘My mother,’ she said. ‘Vianne Rocher.’

2

    Wednesday, 31st October
    VIANNE ROCHER. IT’S been a long time since I wore that name. Like a coat, well-loved but long since put away, I’d almost forgotten how good it felt, how very warm and comfortable. I’ve changed my name so many times – both our names, changing from village to village as we followed the wind – that I should have outgrown this wish by now. Vianne Rocher is long dead. And yet—
    And yet I enjoyed being Vianne Rocher. I liked the shape of the word in their mouths. Vianne , like a smile. Like a word of welcome.
    I have a new name now, of course, not so different from the old. I have a life; a better life, some might say. But it’s not the same. Because of Rosette; because of Anouk; because of everything we left behind in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes, that Easter when the wind changed.
    That wind. I see it’s blowing now. Furtive but commanding, it has dictated every move we’ve ever made. My mother felt it, and so do I – even here, even now – as itsweeps us like leaves into this backstreet corner, dancing us to shreds against the stones.
    V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent
    I thought we’d silenced it for good. But the smallest thing can wake the wind: a word, a sign, even a death. There’s no such thing as a trivial thing. Everything costs; it all adds up until finally the balance shifts and we’re gone again, back on the road, telling ourselves – well maybe next time —
    Well this time, there will be no next time. This time, I’m not running away. I don’t want to have to start anew, as we have done so many times, before and since Lansquenet. This time, we stay. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs us, we stay.
    We stopped in the first village that didn’t have a church. We stayed six weeks, and then moved on. Three months, then a week, a month, another week, changing our names as we went, until the baby began to show.
    Anouk was nearly seven by then. Excited at the thought of a baby sister; but I was so tired, so tired of those interminable villages with the river and the little houses and the geraniums in the window-boxes and the way people looked at us – at her especially – and asked their questions, always the same.
    Have you come far? Will you be staying with relatives here? Will Monsieur Rocher be joining you?
    And when we answered, there’d be that look, that measuring look, taking in our worn clothes and our single case and that fugitive air that speaks of too many railwaystations and passing-places and hotel-rooms left neat and bare.
    And oh – how I longed to be free at last. Free as we had never been; free to stay in a single spot; to feel the wind and ignore its call.
    But however hard we tried, rumour followed us. Some kind of scandal, the whispers said. Some priest was involved, so someone had heard. And the woman? A gypsy; in with the river people; claimed to be a healer; dabbled in herbs. And someone had died, the rumours said – poisoned, perhaps, or simply unlucky.
    In any case, it didn’t matter. The rumours spread like dogwort in summer, tumbling us, harrying us, snapping at our heels; and slowly, I began to understand.
    Something had happened along our road. Something that had altered us. Perhaps we’d stayed a day – a week – too long in one of those villages. Something was different. The shadows had lengthened. We were running.
    Running from what? I didn’t know then, but I could already see it in my reflection; in hotel-room mirrors and shiny shop-fronts. I’d always worn red shoes; Indian skirts with bells on the hems; second-hand coats with daisies on the pockets, jeans embroidered with